


tell me please (all is forgiven)

by OnyxSphynx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 'write something happy' you said, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), newt isn't in such a great place let's be real, oh dang almost forgot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: It’s the screams that get him.He’s not sure how he ends up there, the minutes prior to it a blur,panicandfearandpain,but not his, not his—Newton’s, and then he’s shoving his way past the medical personnel.Newt’s huddled in a corner, rocking slightly, eyes wide and terrified, and another one of the nurses reach for him—“Stop!” Hermann shouts, practically knocks the nurse over, throws himself in front of Newt as if shielding him. “Stop, can’t you see, he’s—he’sterrified!”They murmur amongst themselves, and Hermann shifts from foot to foot warily, a snarl just below the surface, ready to hurt anyone who tries to touch Newt—





	tell me please (all is forgiven)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macremae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/gifts).



> you can find me at [three-black-cats](https://three-black-cats.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

For days, Newton just sits in the cell, head bowed, silent. He doesn’t respond to any of the interrogation attempts, and the only indication he’s still alive the steady stream of data from the machines monitoring his vitals.

It’s been two days since he’s been declared free of any and all influence from the Precursors, and Hermann’s beginning to worry. Newton’s lack of any sort of reaction whatsoever ignites a spark of panic within him. The glazed quality of his stare frightens Hermann—this is not the Newton Geiszler he knew sitting there.

He looks broken.

It _hurts_. It hurts more than it should.

Hermann would like to pretend he doesn’t know why, but he does, he knows all too well, because, in the end—

Well, in the end, it’s all his fault. He’s the one who knew Newt most intimately—he should have noticed something was wrong, should have seen the terror in Newt’s eyes on the landing pad when he’d boarded Shao’s helicopter, should have heard the hollow ring to his words, the way he was distracted, off—

 _Newton Geiszler, but a little to the left, give or take a kaiju brain,_ murmurs the little bit of him that sounds suspiciously like Newton during the war. He bites his tongue, squares his jaw.

Ranger Pentecost notices first, says, unusually gentle, “You care about him a great deal, don’t you?” and it’s more of a statement than a question.

Hermann offers a bitter smile. “I do, for whatever that’s worth anymore.” In his mind, the voices clamour, _How can you claim to care for him after you practically threw him off the proverbial cliff?_

“You should go in and see him,” the ranger suggests, “maybe seeing you’ll help.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, more softly, “And while you’re in there, tell him...tell him we’re sorry, yeah? _I’m_ sorry.”

There’s something in his tone—pain, Hermann thinks. He almost lost his sister that day, and Mako’s still in the hospital, but—

She’s going to be alright.

 _What for?_ he almost asks, doesn’t, because all of this happened as a result of Newt’s first Drift, the Drift that helped end the war. He swallows, feels, all of a sudden, wrong-footed, turns away so that the other doesn’t see the tears that spill, unwanted, down his cheeks.

Coward that he is, he puts it off for as long as possible, dreads the moment—

It’s the screams that get him.

He’s not sure how he ends up there, the minutes prior to it a blur, _panic_ and _fear_ and _pain_ , but not his, not his—Newton’s, and then he’s shoving his way past the medical personnel.

Newt’s huddled in a corner, rocking slightly, eyes wide and terrified, and another one of the nurses reach for him—

“ _Stop!_ ” Hermann shouts, practically knocks the nurse over, throws himself in front of Newt as if shielding him. “Stop, can’t you see, he’s—he’s _terrified!_ ”

They murmur amongst themselves, and Hermann shifts from foot to foot warily, a snarl just below the surface, ready to hurt anyone who tries to touch Newt—

“Doctor Gottlieb?” A hand on his arm, and Hermann snaps back to earth.

“ _What?_ ” he hisses.

The nurse—young, perhaps early twenties—swallows nervously. “H—he hasn’t e—eaten,” he stammers. “We were afraid—”

 _Oh_ , Hermann thinks, and bites the inside of his cheek. “Alright,” he says, more evenly than he thought possible. “I’ll—I’ll make sure that he eats something. But if anyone touches him—”

“Got it!” exclaims the nurse, more than a little fearfully.

He doesn’t know how long it is before the room is clear—he’s focused solely on Newton, trembling in the corner, aches to gather him into his arms, but—no, he cannot do that. Instead, he says, as gently as possible, “Newton?”

The other gives him a wild-eyed look, whimpers—

Oh, how that breaks Hermann’s heart.

He feels useless, hovering here, but he can’t touch Newton, cannot risk making it worse. “Newton,” he says, again, softly, and this time, the other’s expression is just a little less frightened, so he repeats himself, lowers himself to the floor and lets Newt’s name become a mantra, and slowly, slowly, Newt calms.

Finally, when his breathing evens out, eyes focused on Hermann instead of off into the distance, Hermann says, “Newton, can you stand?”

“I—” the other starts, and his voice cracks. He swallows, shakes his head.

“Alright,” Hermann says, as calmly as he can. “Are you comfortable with waiting a moment as I fetch you something to eat?”

There’s another moment, and then Newt croaks, “N—no, I—”

“Shh, it’s alright,” Hermann soothes, “I can ask one of the nurses to bring us something, alright? I just need to pop out into the corridor for a moment, alright?”

This time, Newt gives a tentative nod. Hermann could almost cry with relief.

It takes a while for them to fetch something that resembles actual food. Newt’s still sitting in the corner, but he’s no longer folded in on himself, no longer trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

“Here,” Hermann says softly, passes him the tray. The only utensil they’ve afforded him is a plastic spoon, and that troubles Hermann more than he’d like to admit. Watches with bated breath as Newt stares at the food for a moment as if it’s something alien, unknown.

He looks back at Hermann, searching. “Can I—?”

Hermann’s thoughts shudder to a halt at the hesitancy in his tone. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, emphatically, almost choking on the words, “yes, of course you can, Newton.”

Newt eats like a bird—small bites, eyes darting rapidly around the room, as if afraid that this, too, will be taken from him, and Hermann wishes he could pull the other into an embrace, tell him there’s no need to fear that, not anymore, not when Hermann’s here.

He doesn’t, though, just watches the other, makes encouraging noises whenever he starts looking like he’s going to panic. “Water?” he offers, once the biologist has finished his admittedly meagre portions, and holds out the styrofoam cup when he nods, careful that their fingers don’t brush.

The other gulps the water down and stares blankly at the empty cup for a moment, licks his lips and coughs.

“Would you like some more water?” Hermann asks.

“Y—yes, please,” Newt manages, quietly, not quite meeting his gaze. “T—thank you.”

Hermann presses his lips together in an attempt not to burst into tears.

After that, Newt drifts off to sleep, still sitting on the ground. Hermann would try and figure out a way to move him to a bed, except—

Except the sound of Newt’s terrified screaming still play through his mind on loop, and he cannot bear to cause a similar—or worse—reaction. But he can’t—he can’t—

He can’t _leave_ Newt here, shivering in his sleep, pressed against the wall. The very thought of doing so disgusts him—no, he can’t leave Newt. Not again.

Never again.

The time it takes to return to his quarters and fetch pillows and blankets seems to stretch like molasses, slow and dark, cloyingly sweet somehow. He knows he must be a sight, barely able to balance two pillows and an equal amount of blankets, but that’s not his main concern; Newt is.

Newt’s frowning in his sleep, mouth pulled into a thin white line, but it’s trembling, just the tiniest bit, and behind closed eyelids, his eyes flicker rapidly. As much as he hates to wake him, though, Hermann is afraid the other will catch a cold in his sleep.

“Newton,” he says, as softly as he can while still being loud enough to rouse the other, “Newton, wake up. I’ve brought you a blanket and a pillow.”

The other’s eyes snap open, and for a second, he stares at Hermann without recognition, tense, ready to flee—

And then he registers where he is, lets out a little, “ _Oh_.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but...” Hermann trails off, gestures to where he’s set the blanket, folded neatly, and the pillow, by Newt’s side. “I figured if you weren’t able to get up quite yet, the least I could do was make sure you’re comfortable.”

The way Newt stares at him—wide-eyed, as if expecting Hermann to pull the rug from beneath him is heartbreaking, and his lungs feel like they’ve been doused in gasoline and lit aflame.

Newt worries his lip for a moment before reaching, tentatively, to the items, as if afraid he’ll be bitten the moment he touches them. “Thank you,” he says, nearly inaudible, and offers Hermann a watery smile.

* * *

He can’t see properly—not without his glasses, and he hasn’t worn those in years, but he can see Hermann, blurry, kneeling in front of him. _Please, just reach out_ , he wants to beg, _needs_ Hermann to touch him, knows, somehow, that physical contact with the other will make this awful buzzing go away, but—

Well, of course Hermann doesn’t want to touch him.

Why would he?

Newt closes his eyes, remembers staring into Hermann’s own, terrified, as his hands tighten around the other’s neck, and he can’t do anything about it, why isn’t Hermann _fighting_ this? He should be trying to break free; instead, his hands are rubbing Newt’s own, damnably gently, and there’s acceptance there, along with the fear.

The only thing lacking is a spark of _defiance_ ; in its place is something sickeningly like serenity.

He swallows and opens his eyes, peers at the physicist, but the image is burnt into his mind.

So he offers a weak smile, watches, relieved, as the worry’s wiped away.

Hermann props the other pillow against the wall, a few feet away from him, and lowers himself to the ground, unfolds the other blanket and draped it over his lap. For a second, hope flutters like a particularly giddy firefly in Newt’s ribcage, just below his heart— _maybe he does care_ , but—

That’s ridiculous. He shouldn’t get his hopes up like this, not for Hermann, who deserves far better, who, more likely than not, is only doing this out of a misplaced sense of guilt; he must blame himself for this, because that is who Hermann is, but in reality, Hermann carries the least blame of them all.

He’s the only one who tried to help Newt, even if it was too little, too late, in the end, the first Drift had already corrupted his mind.

His emotions regarding the other are tangled—they always have been, but with the Precursors’ interference, he’s not even sure that the fondness he feels, the affection he has—

Are they legitimate? Or are they manufactured, an attempt to get him closer to Hermann, to trap him as well? No—

They can’t be. He refuses to entertain the thought. These are _his_ feelings, however one-sided; for good or bad. They cannot rob him of his certainty in this as well.

“Newton?”

He blinks, unsure of when he closed his eyes; he must have fallen asleep, but he has no memory of it, no memory even of laying down, because last he knows, he was propped up in the corner. When he opens his mouth, the words feel cottony as they tumble out. “I—Hermann, what—?”

Suddenly, mortifyingly, he realises he’s got drool on his cheek. He wipes it away hurriedly, tries again. “Hermann?”

There’s a second, and then Hermann appears in his line of sight. “Yes, Newton, it’s me,” he says, patient, more so than he should be. “Can you stand up?”

“I—” Newt thinks on it for a moment. Will his legs buckle like they did last time?

Well. Only one way to find out.

Hermann lets out a strangled sound as he rises to his feet, too fast, and almost pitches forward, vision spotting black. “I’m f—fine,” he croaks, steadying himself against a wall. “Give me a—give me a moment.”

He gets the distinct impression that Hermann is frowning at his, doing that little thing he does whenever Newt does something stupid—brows furrowed, biting his lip without realising it. “Alright,” he says, after a few seconds, reluctant, “but if you can’t—”

“I _can_ ,” Newt says, stubborn. _I_ have _to_. Still, though, the fact that the other doesn’t move to steady him is starkly obvious.

Despite common assumption, Hermann’s actually pretty tactile—a hand on a shoulder, leg brushing his, standing just a hair’s-breadth closer so their fingers brush. All of these, though, are things that have been notably absent.

Newt tries not to let that sting. It makes sense—Hermann only does that with people he trusts, and god knows he has plenty of reason to never trust Newt again.

Finally, he can see properly again—well, as properly as before. He grimaces at that.

Hermann’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “We should get you a change of clothes,” he says, “and you could do with a shower.”

At that, Newt cracks a smile. “Probably,” he agrees.

There aren’t as many people in the hallways as Newt expects; it’s a relief, really, because he doesn’t know how they’d react to seeing him. Instead of letting his thoughts stray down that path, he clings more tightly to the pillows and blankets he’s carrying, tries to imagine that he can smell Hermann’s shampoo.

He can’t, of course; that’s not how these things work.

Still, it’s nice to pretend.

It’s not until they get to a door and Hermann pulls out a key, fiddles with the lock, that Newt thinks to ask what he’s doing.

“Unlocking the door to my quarters,” Hermann says. “I’ve got a shower you can use, and clean clothes.”

“Oh,” Newt says, because what else _can_ he say. “Okay.”

For a second, they just stand there in the hallway, Hermann staring at him as he stares at the open door, blankets and pillows held against his chest, and then Hermann clears his throat. “The, ah, towels are in the drawers under the sink,” he says, and then, with more hesitancy, “Ranger Pentecost asked me to pass on his apologies for your treatment.”

That leaves Newt winded, because—

Well, what’s he supposed to _say_ to that?

So instead, he steps over the threshold, sets the blankets, folded neatly, onto Hermann’s bed and practically flees into the bathroom.

The shower is more luxurious than anything he remembers being in—well, there was a jacuzzi in the penthouse, but he doesn’t...he doesn’t want to think about that. The water is practically scorching—focus on that, instead, he should.

Yeah, he should focus on that.

Thanks, inner Yoda.

By the time he’s gotten himself to what feels decently clean, the water’s hot instead of scalding. His hair, he suspects, smells like cucumber, because that’s the only shampoo Hermann has, which, really—

Yeah, he should’ve expected that.

It’s nice, though, the thought that it could, theoretically.

That, though, makes him think of Hermann, which is Not Great, because—

Because he tried to fucking _kill_ him.

His best friend in what is probably all the world, and Newt tried to choke him to death. He stares blankly at the white-tiled wall.

Right. He should...he should probably get out.

Hermann’s left a change of clothes for him hung up on the hook on the back of the door at some point while he was showering—Newt’s not sure how he didn’t realise the other came in, but whatever—that consists of a decent-ish button-up and a pair of slacks.

He wraps the towel around himself, toga-style, opens the door and tries not to shiver as all the cold air rushes out. “Hermann,” he attempts to whine, even though it comes out sounding more like he’s sick with how scratchy it is, “Hermann, you didn’t give me any underwear.”

That results in sputtering, on Hermann’s part, at least, and takes a good ten minutes to sort out, but it does get sorted out, in the end.

Hermann’s still not touching Newt, though, and that—that hurts. A lot.

Any time Newt tries to move closer, to brush against him even _casually_ , Hermann shies away. The worst part is, he doesn’t even seem to realise that he’s doing it, and Newt winds up feeling both cold and horrible, because he should just _stop_ , obviously Hermann doesn’t want to touch him, but—

God, he can’t.

He bites his tongue; wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever be able to stop fucking things up.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he says.

Hermann offers an altogether too curt nod. “Of course,” he says. “And—” he pauses, looks, for a second, like he wants to say something different, before he continues, “I’ve just been informed that you’ve been given quarters down the hall from mine, for as long as...as long as you wish to remain here.”

“ _Wish?_ ” Newt scoffs.

The other swallows. “Yes, well,” he says, sounds maybe just the littlest bit pained, “they can’t keep you, now that you’ve been cleared. I do believe that they’d be more than happy to hire you, though, if you wished.”

Newt stares at him, until finally, Hermann fidgets. “I—the door should be unlocked,” he tries, “it’s four doors down to the left, the keys should be on the table inside.”

“Thanks,” Newt says, “I’ll, um. Go, then.”

Hermann nods, doesn’t meet his gaze; Newt tries not to feel like he’s had the wind knocked out of him.

The room is, as Hermann guessed, unlocked; the keys are in the lock, though, which is slightly disconcerting. Newt pulls them out and tries not to think too much about the prospect of getting locked out, or worse, getting locked _in_.

It’s frighteningly impersonal; reminds him too much of ultra-modern art on walls and stupid fruit bowls and brains in yellow-green fluid and Hermann’s—

 _Yeah,_ no, he thinks, as firmly as possible. _Let’s not do this right now, maybe?_

There’s a few changes of clothing in the closet—t-shirts and jeans, mostly, but there’s a few pairs of capris, as well, and the bed’s neatly made, the edges tucked in perfectly.

The aching hits him suddenly, like a truck—before, yeah, it _hurt_ , that Hermann wasn’t touching him, but now? Now it burns like dry ice. Newt chokes back a sob, not willing to let it escape, because maybe if he doesn’t this won’t be real, maybe he can—

What, wake up in a fantasy world where Hermann is just as enamoured with Newt as Newt is with him?

Pathetic.

He thinks he’s going to—

What, die? That’d be doing the world a favour, really.

He crawls under the covers still fully-clothed, wraps his arms around himself and pretends, for a few seconds, that the weight on him is that of Hermann’s arms; cries until he can’t cry any longer and falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. Hermann tries not to worry about Newt—he’s obviously doing better, if the lack of bruise-like bags under his eyes are anything to go by. They’re a little red, though, but it’s probably just allergies.

In the interest of acclimating him to the rest of the shatterdome, Hermann offers to show him his lab, proper. “Not the office,” he clarifies, “that was...that was a bit of a mess, and, well, you’ve already _seen_ it—”

“It’s fine,” Newt says, and Hermann wonders if he caught sight of the photo before Hermann swept it aside and under some other papers. He wonders if Newt remembers any of that, if any of it was—

No, of _course_ it wasn’t. He takes another bite of the lukewarm excuse for cheesecake and tries to focus on the way it tastes too sweet instead the way Newt’s smile looks like broken glass badly glued together.

“Alright,” he says, and finishes the last of it, rises to his feet. “Well. Follow me.”

What he expects is for Newt to enthuse over the equipment in the lab, perhaps needle Hermann about the giant chalkboards.

What he doesn’t expect is silence.

He almost doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in rapid-fire sentences strung together quicker than they should be, trying to fill the gap between them, doesn’t notice until he turns around mid-gesture and catches sight of the other’s face, ashen and drawn.

That brings him to a halt, though. “Newton?” he asks, “are you—are you quite alright?”

The biologist doesn’t answer. His eyes are glazed, staring over Hermann’s shoulder, and Hermann tracks his gaze to find—

A diagram of a kaiju brain.

 _No_ . A diagram of a very _specific_ kaiju brain— _Alice_.

He turns around, apologies spilling from his lips, but Newt doesn’t hear a single one; his chest is rising and falling rapidly as he drags in ragged breaths, backs away—

He hits a table and crumples to the ground, but he doesn’t seem to realise. “Newt!” Hermann exclaims, frantic now, because he _knows_ what’s happening but there’s nothing he can do—“Newton, it’s alright,” he tries, because he doesn’t know what _else_ to do besides to attempt to reassure the other that it’s not real, it’s not _real_. “It can’t hurt you, it’s just a drawing, just chalk on chalkboard, it’s—”

The terrified whimper that escapes Newt is heart-wrenching, and without thinking about it, Hermann leans forward and pulls Newt into an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, hands rubbing the other’s back, because Newt is going to hate him for this as soon as he can speak, he’s doing the one thing he swore not to do, crossing all of the invisible lines with this, but he can’t think of any other way to help. “I’m sorry, Newton, I’m sorry, I’m sorry darling, I’m sorry...”

He doesn’t know how long they remain there, on the floor of the lab, Hermann’s arms around Newt, rocking him very, very gently, murmuring apologies into his ear, his head in the crook of Hermann’s neck, hands gripping the fabric of Hermann’s shirt like a life-line.

Finally, the trembling subsides, the gasping, ragged breaths turn into slower, quieter, more even ones. Hermann begins to pull away—there’s no excuse, not anymore, and he doesn’t want to make this worse—

“D—don’t go.” Newt’s hand’s on his shoulder, and he stares at Hermann beseechingly. “Please, Hermann, I just,” he stops, struggling with the words for a moment before he crumbles. “I c—can’t bear not touching you,” he murmurs, brokenly.

“I—” Hermann swallows. _I thought you didn’t want me touching you_ , he almost says, but that’s not a conversation for now. That can be discussed later. Now, Newt needs him.

He’s hesitated too long, apparently, because Newt folds in on himself, arms pulling away from Hermann to wrap around himself, expression pained and miserable. “You c—can g—go,” he says, “I d—don’t want to keep—I don’t want to keep you f—from w—work—”

“ _No_ ,” Hermann says, forcefully, “I’m not leaving you.” And then, tentative, he reaches toward the other—

Newt practically launches himself into Hermann’s arms, clings to him like he’s going to disappear if he doesn’t. He sniffles, and on instinct, Hermann brings his arms up around the biologist, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, “it’s alright, Newton, you’re safe now.”

“I love you,” Newt says, muffled; non-sequitur, and that makes Hermann smile, just the tiniest bit. “For l—longer than you know.”

He lapses into silence—not expecting anything from Hermann. That’s not how Newt is; it never has been. He says what he feels and lets that be that regardless of anyone else’s convictions.

Perhaps before Hermann would’ve let the words be met by silence, but—

It’s been ten years. He’s got an awful lot to say.

“I love you, too,” he says, short, simple, and sitting there on the floor of the lab, his partner in all senses of the word in his arms, he thinks he understands what people mean when they say the world’s a brighter place when you love someone.


End file.
